Hard by are eight arches of a most magnificent aqueduct, said to be erected by Antony, when his legions were quartered here.  There are many other parts of it dispersed up and down the country, for it brought the water from a river many leagues off in La Forez.  Here are remains too of Agrippa’s seven great roads which met at Lyons; in some places they lie twelve feet deep in the ground.

MARSEILLES[A]

[Footnote A:  From “Pictures from Italy,” written in 1844]

BY CHARLES DICKENS

So we went on, until eleven at night, when we halted at the town of Aix (within two stages of Marseilles) to sleep.  The hotel, with all the blinds and shutters closed to keep the light and heat out, was comfortable and airy next morning, and the town was very clean; but so hot, and so intensely light, that when I walked out at noon it was like coming suddenly from the darkened room into crisp blue fire.  The air was so very clear, that distant hills and rocky points appeared within an hour’s walk; while the town immediately at hand—­with a kind of blue wind between me and it—­seemed to be white hot, and to be throwing off a fiery air from its surface.

We left this town toward evening, and took the road to Marseilles.  A dusty road it was; the houses shut up close; and the vines powdered white.  At nearly all the cottage doors, women were peeling and slicing onions into earthen bowls for supper.  So they had been doing last night all the way from Avignon.  We passed one or two shady dark chateaux, surrounded by trees, and embellished with cool basins of water:  which were the more refreshing to behold, from the great scarcity of such residences on the road we had traveled.

As we approached Marseilles, the road began to be covered with holiday people.  Outside the public-houses were parties smoking, drinking, playing draughts and cards, and (once) dancing.  But dust, dust, dust, everywhere.  We went on, through a long, straggling, dirty suburb, thronged with people; having on our left a dreary slope of land, on which the country-houses of the Marseilles merchants, always staring white, are jumbled and heaped without the slightest order; backs, fronts, sides, and gables toward all points of the compass; until, at last, we entered the town.

I was there, twice, or thrice afterward, in fair weather and foul; and I am afraid there is no doubt that it is a dirty and disagreeable place.  But the prospect, from the fortified heights, of the beautiful Mediterranean, with, its lovely rocks and islands, is most delightful.  These heights are a desirable retreat, for less picturesque reasons—­as an escape from a compound of vile smells perpetually arising from a great harbor full of stagnant water, and befouled by the refuse of innumerable ships with all sorts of cargoes, which, in hot weather, is dreadful in the last degree.